HideYoKids: Him? What about her? WHAT A TROLLOP!
MicroP33n: Takes tow to tango.
HoppyGoLucky: And half a brain to spell
DanteClaus: Name checks out. Tiny mind. Tiny todger.
Rope-a-dope: Marcus, is that you?
TheHallouminati: I saw him getting blasted by the brunching brigade at Brick Lane market. It was well sick!
McLuffin: I would’ve paid to see that.
JimBeamMeUp: That poor woman. Hasn’t she been through enough?
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Chapter 18
EVIE
“Eve, I’m downstairs.” Oliver’s clipped words ring through the handset of my new phone. It has my old number—Mitchell’s number is blocked, obviously—and I have my new bank cards, and passport, thanks to reporting it lost, which isn’t really a lie. But just as importantly, I have this:
“Good for you!” I say into the phone, as though speaking to a toddler.
“I am downstairs. You are not.”
“No flies on you, Olly. That must be why you earn the big bucks.”
“The plan was for you to be down here by the time I returned,” he replies, audibly tamping down his frustration and ignoring his hated nickname.
Was that the sound of a molar chipping?
“I don’t know what to tell you. Plans change. Fashions change. Weather and hairstyles too. Nothing in this life is static.” Which is total bull, because I hit pause on my life the day I moved into this suite. The day I turned up at his door and asked,“Is this hell? Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
It’s been two weeks of chauffeur-driven rides to Nora’s. Two weeks of yummy room service lunches, fancy spa visits, and late-afternoon siestas. Two weeks of champagne cocktails and fancy dinners out, all in Oliver’s quest to build our backstory.
“Thank you for sharing your philosophy. However, we agreed you’d meet me downstairs for dinner.”
“Did we agree?” I press my index finger into my cheek as though he can see me. “Wait. Was that before or after I said you’d regret blackmailing me into living with you?” My footsteps are barely audible as I cross the room to the French doors, pushing back the stylish window dressings. I step out onto the small Juliet balcony and look over the wrought iron railings down into the street. A sleek town car pulls up at the hotel entrance, the liveried doorman sedate in his progression to the passenger door. To the left of me somewhere is Buckingham Palace, to my right a hundred ritzy stores. Across the street, a man double-parks his bright-red midlife crisis Lamborghini as a woman in head-to-toe Gucci passes, using her $30,000 Birkin as her fluffy Pomeranian’s pet carrier. I love London, but this spot right here is a crazy-pants level of wealthy.
“Do we have to go through this every day?” he mutters as I move back into the suite.
Poor Oliver.Not.He sounds so weary.Yay!
“Every day? Maybe just until I get used to the idea.” It hasn’t been at all hard to get used to unlimited spa visits, bougie afternoon teas, and room service. If you’re going to decompress, where better than in a luxurious boutique hotel?
The break has given me time to think, to process things, and while I might not have been aware of Mitch’s wealth, it makes sense now. It’s not that I think all wealthy people are dirtbags and all the poor are virtuous, but I do know the rich live in a different kind of reality. It’s one that often leads to a disregard for those aroundthem.Not to mention an inflated sense of self.Sweeping statements, sure, but they ring true when I look at what has happened, and what is happening, to me.
So here I am, keeping up a campaign of subtle annoyance. Nothing too damaging, because fairisfair. Ariana, the immigration lawyer Oliver set me up with, is amazing. And he was right—there’s no way I could’ve afforded her fees, let alone accessed them.
The acronymiykykwas probably created for her.
Anyway, yesterday I received notification that my visa application had been received. I’ve had my fingerprints taken, and I’ve submitted a photograph for my biometric card, the modern-day version of a visa stamp to a passport.
All systems are go: two weeks down. Ten more to go.
“Well, get used to it quickly,” Oliver bites, “or that fluffy-arsed monster is going back to the kennel.”
